


Death's Dominion

by MrsHamill



Series: Sandman Crossover Project [7]
Category: The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Multiple Crossovers, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 22:01:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6026809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHamill/pseuds/MrsHamill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death, meet Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death's Dominion

**Author's Note:**

> For both Micehell and Layna, who requested it. I hope I've done well by Methos.

* * *

He'd been taking to hanging around after they'd killed everyone in a village, after Caspian pulled the few live ones aside but before Kronos set fire to everything, because sometimes he'd get a glimpse of her. The girl. And he couldn't figure out where she was coming from, or why he could never find her again after he'd glimpsed her.

He first saw her dozens of years before, as they fought a battle at a ford. It might have even been hundreds of years, they tended to all crowd together after a while. Battles, pillaging, raping... the last time he'd had any sort of challenge at all was with Cassandra. He sometimes felt bored. Worse, he sometimes felt regret -- for the ones he killed, the ones he raped. Feeling like that was not exactly a good thing. He was Death. It was his lot to kill.

She didn't appear to be anywhere in the latest small dung-heap of a village, though he'd looked for her. Then, just as he turned to go back to their temporary encampment he glimpsed her, out of the corner of his eye. He turned quickly and tried to keep her in sight as he ran towards her, but she ducked down behind a tent. He was certain that by the time he'd get there, she'd be gone, but he kept on anyway.

But she was there. She was crouched over the body of a woman who had been gravid in pregnancy, bloody in death. The girl -- so oddly dressed, in black clothing that showed her body off to a ridiculous degree -- looked up when he rounded the tent. "I hope you're happy," she snarled, and he recoiled in surprise. That was not his usual greeting. "Because let me tell you, I'm getting damned sick of your carousing and killing." She stood, and even though she'd been touching the woman's belly, her hands were clean. Her skin was so white it looked like the sands of the great desert.

"Who are you?" He asked, looking her up and down. "You're not immortal, but I've seen you for years."

"What do you care?" She was a real spitfire, this one. He wondered in passing what she'd be like in bed. "But if you must know, then I am the person who truly carries the name you've usurped. I'm the one who comes in and harvests, once you've reaped. And I'm sick of it."

The name he'd...? He laughed. "You claim to be Death? _You_?"

She went icy calm and a shiver went down his back. "Would you like to test it?" she asked quietly. Her eyes were hooded. She had a drawing under one of them, a curling thing, and wore a heavy necklace of silver. "I'd be quite glad to take you, Methos. Personally, I think you're worse than the plague." 

She held out one slim hand, and despite himself, he backed off. "How do you..."

"I know everything about you. I was there as you were born, but you don't remember. And I'll be there when you finally die." She took a step towards him and he backed up. "We could move that appointment date up, if you'd like."

He regarded her warily. She was tiny and beautiful and did not appear to have any weapons upon her. Why, then, did he feel such fear when she looked at him? Why could he feel the _rightness_ of her words, why did he know that if she touched him, he would indeed die? 

He swallowed. "The only way you're killing me is by taking my head, woman." He fingered the knife at his side, but had the sick certainty any weapon would be ineffectual against her. "I am immortal."

"Even immortals die, Methos, which makes the whole concept one great, walking oxymoron. You know you can die. You've killed a few of your fellow immortals in your rampage across central Eurasia. How many quickenings live in your scrawny body?"

"I am not scrawny," he said in sudden indignation. "And I don't know how many quickenings I've taken. I've lost count."

"I imagine so." She dropped her hand and he relaxed, somewhat. "Some day, 'Death', you're going to wake up and realize what a horrible person you really are. My little brother is going to have a field day with you, I just know it. And I'm going to be watching. And laughing."

Her words absolutely terrified him, for all he had no idea what she meant. "What do you mean?" She gave him a pitying look and turned to walk away. "Wait! Please?" She paused and glared at him over her shoulder. 

In his long years, he'd learned how to charm, how to be nice on the outside while plotting death on the inside. He threw as much wheedling sincerity into his words as he could. "Your words are strange to me, beautiful one. Please, explain them? Help me understand you and why you're so angry at me. I would much rather we be on the same side than at odds. Please?"

She turned to him again. This time, her tiny, perfect face was filled with shock and outrage and incredulous hilarity. "Are you _hitting on me_? How unutterably lame!" She barked out a laugh then planted her fists on her hips. "Okay, fine. How's this, then? You've been killing everything that moves for over a thousand years, Methos. The trail of blood and tears behind you is so long it would take more than an immortal to walk it." She stepped towards him again, and he forced himself to remain still, trying to decipher her strange words. "Someday, in the far future, you're going to really regret all this. You're going to actually grow a conscience and it's going to eat you until you're almost hollow, and there'll be only one man who will be able to help you redeem yourself, and you won't even want to let him."

Taking another step, she was close enough to feel, and she peered up into his face. Her eyes were blazing. "You can't wash your hands of all the blood you've spilled, 'Death'. It's soaked into your skin and it's going to take twice as long as you've lived to wash the stain off." She shook one finger into his face, inches from his nose. "The regrets you're building now will end up being more than even my sister's house could hold. I may only be an anthropomorphic incarnation of sentiential impetus, but you don't have to be a human to recognize a bad one. And you're a bad one."

She glared at him for a moment more before abruptly turning and stalking away. He stood, frozen in place in the heat of the day, watching her move and suddenly disappear, as if she had been folded and slipped between the covers of an invisible book. 

He took a shaky breath and wiped the sweat from his brow, grimacing as his hand was covered in woad. Behind him, he heard Silas arguing with Caspian about the horses, and Kronos stoking his fire in preparation to burning. He stood there as if rooted to the spot, incapable of movement; incapable, almost, of breathing.

Since when did he care what others, those who weren't his brothers, thought of him? He was Death... he was...

Methos looked down at his hands and the blood that had been ground into each and every line and wondered where his humanity had gone.


End file.
